Occupational Hazard
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: One day, Greg Lestade, newly promoted Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, is sure of that, Sherlock Holmes, brilliant, a former drug addict and always going off on his own, will get himself killed. When he is faced with a criminal pressing a gun to Sherlock's temple and Sherlock teasing the man into pulling the trigger, Lestrade's fears seem to have come true./Pre ASiP.


_Hello again!_

_Welcome to a one-shot that got away from me and grew longer than I had intended it to be. Be warned - it takes place two years before A Study in Pink and therefore two years prior to Sherlock and John's first meeting and contains John-less Sherlock. It is my attempt to explore what a younger Sherlock would have been like - more volatile, more self-destructive, I think, but also more insecure.  
><em>

_There will be a little blood, violence, a bit of swearing and possible suicidal thoughts as well as Lestrade behaving not exactly like a police officer is supposed to behave. Furthermore, I don't own anything._

_This one-shot is based on a suggestion for a title by Catie501 - occupational hazard in addition to Sherlock evolved into this._

_Thank you, Dangsoo, very much for reading and betaing! (Any further typing mistakes I didn't remember to correct are mine.)  
><em>

_That was it then - enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong>Occupational Hazard<strong>

* * *

><p><em>3 Bondway. Now. SH<em>

_3 Bondway_, and that was it.

Greg Lestrade - Detective Inspector Lestrade, newly promoted - had of course rushed there, pressed the accelerator pedal through the floor of his car, followed by two more police cars, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_3 Bondway. Now. SH_

And now his men were spreading out, looking for their suspect as well as for their… informant, and he himself was making his way along the railtracks at Vauxhall Station, one hand on his weapon, the other one clutching his mobile, looking for… well, their suspect was the lesser of his problems now, he guessed.

_3 Bondway. Now. SH._

By God, he was going to kill that man!

"He's not even supposed to be on this case," Sally Donovan, his sergeant, muttered next to him, gazing to their right while Greg was scanning the left side. There was a high likelihood that their suspect was armed - he had, after all, shot a man in the shoulder after he had almost been caught during his most recent bank robbery - and it did nothing to ease the lump in Greg's stomach.

"I don't understand where he's got his information from this time, it's…," she went on in a hushed voice and flashed Greg a brief glance.

Greg did his best to look inconspicuous.

"Oh no," she whispered and shook her head in disbelief.

Greg dismissed his weapon in favour of his mobile and busied himself with the phone, hoping anxiously for another text. Telling him that it had been a false alarm, that their suspect wasn't here, anything to tell him that it was not what he thought, that Sherlock had not gone after the man himself, unarmed, a civilian and without bloody backup. "Yes, alright," he admitted and pressed his lips together because there was no new message. Unfortunately, he had never been a particularly good liar, and today, hurrying through the night in search of their suspect and a certain idiot, was no exception. "_I_ gave the files to him."

Donovan huffed, of course, and Greg didn't need to bother with looking at her to know that a frown had settled on her forehead. "Sir!" she protested. "He's a civilian, he's not allowed to…"

Greg tensed instinctively when someone - one of his men, ahead of them, still a good distance away - shouted out, incomprehensible words, but clearly a warning.

A shot went off, somewhere in the dark, to their left, and Sally Donovan's words were forgotten as they both started running, weapons ready, Greg's mobile pocketed, towards the noise and commotion.

One man was standing there, Greg noticed immediately, his breathing coming in short gasps and his heart beating against his ribs, one of their men. Another one on the ground, not moving.

And a few steps away, backed up against the wall of the nearest building, two more men, one of them armed, a strong, bulky man, maybe twice Greg's weight. Their suspect, probably.

For a split-second, Greg cursed Sherlock for his notion to leave him out important information, to figure out who was responsible for the crime in question, even finding out about their whereabouts, but often giving Greg nothing but a bloody address, without a description of the man they were looking for.

For a split-second, because then his blood froze in his veins as his eyes flickered to the second man, in the grasp of their suspect, their suspect's gun pressed against his temple.

If he hadn't been standing there, in the clutches of a criminal, in danger of having a bullet pierce his skull any second now, Greg would not have hesitated to strangle Sherlock Holmes himself in that very moment.

Because of course Sherlock - brilliant as he was - had found out who had robbed all those banks, had discovered his location, had texted Greg - and had not waited for the police to arrive like any sane person would have done, but had gone after the man himself and had promptly manoeuvred himself into bloody danger, about to have his brains blown out.

One day, Greg thought not for the first time as his heart kept on pounding erratically, that lad would get himself killed, one way or another.

"Drop the weapon!" Greg's man - a police officer Greg had met on one or the other occasion, Warren or something - shouted, his own gun pointed at their suspect. After a curt nod from Greg, Sally fell to her knees next to the man on the ground, while Greg slowly, careful not to propose a threat that would startle their suspect into pulling the trigger, approached Sherlock and the other man.

"Stop!" the man shouted, his voice little more than a squeak, a violent contrast to his sturdy built and his thick arm slung around Sherlock's neck, appearing as if he could snap the lad in half if he wanted to. "I said stop! I'll shoot him if you come any closer!"

Against his very instincts, Greg froze accordingly, did not move.

"Stop pointing your weapons at me!" the man yelled, taking a step backwards until he was pressed against the wall of the building. His arm remained wrapped tightly around Sherlock's neck as he pulled Sherlock with him, the barrel of the gun against Sherlock's left temple. "Do as I say, or I'll shoot him!"

Greg swallowed, looked at Sherlock, at his gaunt face and his tense posture. He was brilliant, he really was, a genius, and one day, Greg had realised after their first meeting three years ago, his own brilliance would be the death of Sherlock Holmes.

"Do as he says!" he commanded, let go, reluctantly, unwillingly, of his weapon. He was a Detective Inspector, he could not risk the life of a civilian. Could not risk _Sherlock's_ life.

Warren and Donovan - with a quick nod at Greg, the confirmation that their colleague on the concrete was alive - followed his example, and their suspect nodded, frantically. "Now… get me a car and let me go, or I'll kill him," he exclaimed.

Greg swallowed again. "Listen…," he began, but was cut off by laughter.

Sherlock's laughter.

Sherlock laughed, a dark, hollow sound in the darkness of a London night far away from brightly lit passages and streets, all but echoing through the alley. Four pairs of eyes were on him immediately, startled, shocked. "No you won't," he said, coolly, calm all of a sudden.

"What?" the man stammered and yanked Sherlock to the side, never letting go of his throat, never removing the gun.

"Sherlock-," Greg began, wanted to tell him, to beg him, if necessary, to _shut the hell up_, let them deal with everything and just get out of that bloody alive, but Sherlock simply talked over him: "No you won't," he repeated. "You only fired at that officer as he was about to shoot you, clearly aiming for your right arm, and you chose his leg, thigh, more precisely - enough to incapacitate him, stop him from coming after you, but not enough to kill him. Same with the man you shot on Tuesday - shoulder, not chest or head, not a kill shot, and once again simply because you did not see another way out. You shot them in what you considered to be self-defence, and at least one of them was armed and prepared to injure you as well."

If Greg had been the suspect, he assumed he would have pulled the trigger already, the frozen blood in his veins slowly replaced by boiling anger, infused with utter fear. "Sherlock!" he shouted again, made a step forwards, but neither Sherlock nor the man about to kill him paid attention to him.

"You are a man who started robbing banks for one single reason," Sherlock went on, his speech picking up speed, attempting to train his eyes on the man without turning his head, the barrel of the gun still pressed against his temple and the arm still wrapped around his throat. "You needed money to fund the special-care home for someone who's close to you, I'd say mother, but since your records show that you grew up with your father, your mother having died shortly after your birth, that's impossible, therefore another family member you love, an aunt, most likely, could be a grandmother, but then, you're already in your forties… Family ties that bind you, crimes motivated by love, not hate or lust; you were being driven to committing these crimes because you didn't see another way… Oh, you care about her, don't you? What do you think she'd say if she knew that you killed someone in cold blood, someone who's hardly innocent, I'll grant you that, but who's unarmed, and talking to you, and…"

"Shut up!" the man screamed, and the gun trembled against Sherlock's temple. "Shut up, shut up, or I'll kill you!"

For a moment, nothing but the fear that the man's shaking hands, his quivering finger might pull the trigger, accidentally, overwhelmed Greg, even drowned the fury. "Listen," he tried again, despite his heavily pounding heart in his chest, and didn't even know whom he was talking to. "Listen, if you lay down your weapon now and let him go, I'm sure we'll be able to…"

"NO!" the man screamed and shook his head, like a maniac, the fingers of his right hand digging into the skin of Sherlock's throat. "No, shut up, all of you, or I'll… I'll kill him first, and then you, and then…"

Sherlock's next words felt like a heavy blow to Greg's gut. "Then do it," he said, quietly, and then added, in a louder voice: "Do it, come on, what are you waiting for? Do it, kill me, come on!"

Their suspect's gaze was focused on Sherlock, entirely, not sparing a single thought for Greg, Donovan and Warren.

Shut up, shut up now! Greg wanted to yell, but didn't, because he could see the way their suspect was shaking, with fury maybe, with rage at Sherlock, and if he was certain of one thing, then it was that Sherlock was going to be dead within the next few minutes if he did not shut his mouth and if they did not come up with anything they could do.

"I will!" the man yelled, his voice still so oddly high-pitched.

Greg stooped for his weapon. If he got a good shot, a quiet moment to aim, then he might able to shoot the man without hitting Sherlock, without grazing him, without…

"Then do it!" Sherlock shouted and brought one of his hands to their suspects trembling arm with the gun. "Come on, do it now, end it, end my miserable existence. That's what you wanted, isn't it, that's…"

And then both of them moved before Greg had even got a good hold of his weapon, moved, and everything blurred, and a shot went off.

Everything went silent.

And then someone started whimpering, sobbing, rough, loud noises, and a dark, deep voice began to laugh, equally hollow as before, and Greg could sense nothing but bloody relief for a few moments. Relief that filled his entire being because Sherlock had, despite all of his efforts, not yet succeeded in getting himself killed, somehow, relief that was quickly replaced by boiling rage at an incredibly thick, foolish, ignorant, utterly, utterly stupid genius.

"Arrest him," he told Warren, gesturing, with a shaking hand, at their suspect who was sitting in a crumpled heap against the wall of the building, sobbing, shaking like a leaf, his gun having clattered to the concrete next to him. "Call for back-up and don't let him out of your eyesight."

"Yes, sir." Warren nodded, picked up his handgun and started fumbling for handcuffs.

Sherlock was still there, a few steps away from their suspects, his quiet chuckle slowly dying down, and for a moment, Greg had to fight the impulse to simply rush over to him, grab the bloody stupid man by the collar of his bloody coat and yank him away from the sobbing mess of their suspect, to beat some sense into him.

Then he caught Sally Donovan's look, an odd mixture between horror-stricken, terrified and accusatory, pulled himself together and dropped to his knees, concentrating on their colleague on the ground instead. His leg was bleeding, he realised, just as Sherlock had said, but he was, thankfully, conscious. "You'll be fine," he told the man and regretted not even knowing his name.

"Ambulance four minutes," Donovan filled him in, and Greg forced himself to a grin. "See?" he told the man who simply closed his eyes and grimaced.

Greg startled when Sally suddenly spoke up again. "You have to talk to him," she all but growled. "He's a lunatic, a complete lunatic, and he nearly got all of us killed."

Himself, rather. Greg cleared his throat and gave the other man's shoulder a squeeze. Donovan's belt, he realised as his eyes were scanning the night for Sherlock yet again, was already wrapped around his thigh. Good officer, Sally Donovan.

"Sir!" she addressed him more sharply. "He belongs in jail, or in a mental hospital! Something's not right with him, can't you see that?"

"Donovan...," he interrupted her, feeling rather uneasy, and got to his feet again. Sherlock remained in exactly the same position he had been half a minute ago, cigarette between his lips, Warren, only a few metres away, handcuffing the suspect. "I know you don't like him, but..."

"That's not the point!" Sally Donovan cut him off. "He's a civilian and a danger to..." She stopped immediately when her phone call went through. "Yes, I need back-up at..."

The fury Greg had fought so hard to suppress was rising in him again as he made his way over to Sherlock, coat collar turned up, appearing as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had not had a gun pressed to his head mere minutes ago.

Control, Greg told himself, control.

"Well," was the first word Sherlock said, glimmering cigarette in one hand, stuffing the other one into the pocket of his ridiculous coat. "That was quite tedious."

Within one second, Greg lost it.

Sherlock's sigh died in his throat as Greg slammed him against the wall of the building behind Sherlock, once, twice, never letting go of his collar, his own heart hammering viciously in his chest. "Are you insane!" Greg panted, growled, barely succeeded in keeping his arm still and refraining from punching some sense into the lad. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! Tedious! What the hell was that? Are you trying to kill yourself? God, I swear…"

With a sneer, Sherlock's bony hands tightened around Greg's wrist, cigarette dropped. "I caught your criminal," he hissed, in all of his stubborn arrogance, and tried to shake off Greg's hands. "Let go off me."

Greg did. He let go, clenched his right hand into a hard fist, did not even wait for Sherlock to adjust his collar, and punched him in the face. The back of Sherlock's head hit the wall behind him with a satisfying smack, and breathing suddenly seemed to be a lot easier. That _had _felt good.

Sherlock flashed him an almost shocked look as soon as his eyes had snapped back into focus. "What the hell was that for," he muttered and brought up a hand to his blood-gushing nose.

"That," Greg growled and shook his aching fingers, "was for your complete stupidity!"

It had felt good, yes, and nonetheless a pang of regret shot through Greg almost immediately when Sherlock didn't reply but pressed his fingers to his nose, his head bent forwards to avoid staining his coat with blood. Well, better blood from a punch to the face than from a gunshot to the head.

Greg swallowed and finally got his breathing back under control. "By all rights, I should arrest you," he muttered darkly, "and not let you go until you've come to your senses."

Sherlock snorted disdainfully and cocked an eyebrow at the same time. "You wouldn't," he slurred and tried to wipe his bleeding nose with the back of his hand.

He was a police officer, Greg remembered just in time, a detective, and he could not actually walk around punching people, although Sherlock _had_ deserved it, and whereas he could theorectically detain Sherlock for... almost sabotaging an arrest and, according to Sally Donovan, should, even had to, Greg knew that he wouldn't. Because Sherlock was, unfortunately, right, and because he had a far too soft spot for the lad whose nose he might have broken.

"Come on," he barked and grabbed Sherlock's bony elbow. Christ, he had known that lad for three years now, since he had been questioned at a crime scene about the murder of a dealer and had, high as a kite, explained neatly and conclusively who had done it, and why, and had turned out to be right in the end, but he could have sworn that Sherlock hadn't gained a single gram of weight in all those years, even now that he was clean. Or claimed to be, anyway (and Greg believed him, of course he did, or he wouldn't allow him to… consult with him). "You need to get that looked at."

It did not come as a huge surprise when Sherlock jerked his elbow free, sharply, and recoiled a few inches. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice oddly muffled, with all the blood filling his nose.

Greg didn't protest. Wouldn't be of any use with Sherlock, would it?

He did, however, stop Sherlock when the lad tried to walk away, his fingers still clamping his bleeding nose shut, walk away as if nothing had happened. "Hey, where d'you think you're going," he exclaimed, some of the tension draining out of him, and grabbed hold of the fabric of Sherlock's coat. "We've gotta talk."

Sherlock pulled for a moment, but Greg didn't let go, and finally he turned around and rolled his eyes. "What could we possibly have to talk about," he muttered, exasperatedly.

Yeah, what did they have? The problem was that Greg knew exactly what, but didn't know how to start, how to say it. "So…," he began awkwardly, his fingers still clutching Sherlock's coat. "How're you doing these days?"

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes again. "Oh please," he muttered. "Could we skip the moronic small-talk?"

Calm, Greg tried to tell himself, and failed. "Fine," he growled and only barely resisted the urge to add a black eye to Sherlock's bleeding nose. "Sherlock, what the hell were you doing back there?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, his expression blank. "Told you," he commented snarkily. "Caught your criminal."

"Bloody hell," Greg muttered and did his best to stifle his utter… frustration. Anger. To forget the echo of the fear he had felt when he had seen their suspect press his gun against Sherlock's temple, and when Sherlock had kept teasing him, provoking him. "Sherlock, we had a deal," he said. "I let you in on some cases, I give you access to information, but you do _not_ go off on your own, remember? You're not a member of the force, therefore you don't go anywhere on your own, got that?"

Sherlock gave a muffled sigh and gazed through the night, over to where an ambulance had arrived for Greg's man their suspect had injured, appearing bored. "You wouldn't have caught him without me," he pointed out, stubbornly.

Now it was Greg's turn to roll his eyes. "We're not stupid. We would've got him, even without you almost getting yourself killed. Christ, Sherlock, if he'd shot you…"

"Oh, I see," Sherlock announced, and his eyes glimmered for a moment. "You're worried what would have happened to your recent promotion if a civilian had been killed under your supervision."

Greg could not believe it. "Sherlock, that's…," he began and almost missed Sherlock ripping his coat free of his grasp.

"A perfectly unnecessary concern," Sherlock cut him off and started walking away. Nope, Greg determined and marched after him. "I knew he wasn't going to pull the trigger."

Greg shook his head and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Warren had arrested their suspect, the others had arrived, Donovan was talking to Paramedics. Fine, then, he wasn't needed over there. "Bollocks," he told Sherlock and kept up with his swift strides. "There was no way anyone could've known that, not even you."

Sherlock didn't even smirk, didn't move a single muscle in his face. His nose had stopped bleeding by now, dried red spots of bloods colouring his pale, gaunt face. Christ, the lad definitely needed more to eat. Or needed to eat more. He stared ahead, without commenting on what Greg had said, and a suspicion arose in Greg all of a sudden.

"Are you back on drugs?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock huffed indignantly and quickened his pace.

Greg caught his arm again, wrapped his fingers around the lad's thin forearm. "Just tell me," he demanded.

"I'm clean!" Sherlock hissed, venom in his eyes and his features.

Greg stared at him for a moment, Sherlock stared back, and finally, Greg nodded. "Okay," he said quietly. "I believe you. You're not on drugs. Just tell me… what was that, then?"

Sherlock opened his mouth. "I…," he began, but Greg cut him off. "Yeah, I know, you caught our criminal. Bloody brilliant. And why the hell did you start trying to talk him into shooting you?"

Sherlock's upper lip trembled ever so slightly and if looks had been able to kill, Greg would have been dead already. Burnt to a crisp, probably, with the way Sherlock's eyes were blazing. Luckily, they couldn't, and Greg was allowed to live a little longer.

"What if he had?" Sherlock said suddenly, sharply. "Isn't that what everybody dreams of? Killed in the honourable service for the 'good'?" His voice was so full of hatred, of… fury, maybe, or... self-loathing, if it hadn't been Sherlock Holmes Greg was talking to, the personification of arrogance, that it even startled Greg who had witnessed quite a few outbursts from Sherlock, when he had been coming down from one of his highs, or during withdrawal.

"Sherlock…," Greg began and didn't quite know what to say. Didn't know how to deal with Sherlock's biting sarcasm, with his bitterness. Until, suddenly, it dawned on him. Or rather, _something _dawned on him, and it drove the breath out of him for a moment, leaving him hoping, praying to God or whoever that he was wrong. "You…," he croaked, cleared his throat. "Sherlock, do you… do you sometimes…"

Sherlock swallowed, and his gaze wavered for the first time this night. Then he visibly forced himself back under control and tore his arm out of Lestrade's grasp. "Oh, for God's sake, Lestrade," he spat. "I'm not going to kill myself, if that's what you're thinking."

Greg folded his arms over his chest, and tried not to look too skeptical. Tried to control his sudden craving for a pack of cigarettes, despite his best intentions to quit. Didn't do his lungs any good. "How else would you describe what you did?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock lit the cigarette he had fumbled for and put it between his lips while Greg had been thinking about what else to ask. He took a deep drag, deeper, more desperate than Greg was used to from him. "Oh, that," Sherlock waved dismissively with the cigarette - too dismissively to be convincing - and shrugged his shoulders beneath the coat that always seemed too large for him, or too heavy. "That was just… an occupational hazard."

Occupational hazard. Greg snorted quietly. "Yeah," he made. "Sure. And I'm going to be Chief Superintendent."

Sherlock took a last drag from his cigarette - from the tiny remnants of his cigarette - and then dropped it to the concrete. "Until next time," he said, darkly, and turned around again.

This time, Greg let him go and just stood there, watched him walk away, pulling out and lighting a second cigarette until he disappeared behind a corner.

Occupational hazard. Blimey.

"Sir!" Donovan's voice shouted from behind him. Paperwork that was waiting for him, a hospital visit to make sure that their man - shot in the leg, nothing too life-threatening - was going to be alright, another lecture by Donovan, his junior, about Sherlock and allowing him access to crime scenes and investigations, and on top of all that, Sherlock's odd - even for him – behaviour. His... worrying behaviour.

Greg stared a few moments longer and pulled out his mobile.

Until next time, Sherlock had said. Maybe… after everything that had happened today, after Sherlock's near suicide-mission, maybe it would be better - for the force, possibly, as well as for Sherlock - if Sherlock took some time off, if Greg did not involve him in any further cases for the next few weeks, just as Donovan would surely insist on.

"Lestrade!" Donovan shouted again.

"Coming," Greg mumbled and shook his head. But he couldn't. Because he needed Sherlock - to solve crimes more _quickly_, not to solve crimes _at all_ - and because the only times he ever saw Sherlock smile, truly smile, not grin sarcastically, was when he stopped by at his grimy little flat and offered him an interesting case.

No, if there was one thing he couldn't bring himself to do, then it was that. Not until Greg was forced to do exactly that, not until his superiors heard about what he was doing. He would, he decided, just have to make sure himself that Sherlock did not manage to get himself shot, or stabbed, or beaten to death.

Sooner or later, Greg mused darkly while he walked back to Donovan and started typing out a text to one Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's tendency to poke his nose too deeply into business that wasn't his, with a unbelievable recklessness that bordered on self-destruction, would end with him burning his fingers. And he would be lucky if the fire stopped after it had devoured his fingers.

Greg stifled a sigh, sent the text and tried to concentrate on his daytime job, doing his best to ignore his cravings for a cigarette.

And made a mental note to text Sherlock afterwards, before he went to bed, just to… well, to make sure that everything was still alright, that Sherlock had not shot up and overdosed, despite his being clean, and find him a nice, harmless, interesting cold case.

One day, Sherlock Holmes would be the death of him. Certainly.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for reading; please let me know what you thought.<em>


End file.
